


castaways and cutouts

by curtaincall



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall
Summary: These are a few fragments sitting in my drafts that I know I'll never finish, but I thought people might enjoy reading the snippets.(I also have two incompletes that I may continue, in addition to license my roving hands)





	1. there is a light (don't let it go out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a retelling of the relationship from Amy's POV, with the conceit that she's been actively fighting a crush on Jake for years.

There were a few things Amy had determined that no one could ever know about: the F she got on a geography test in fifth grade, the time she got her period at summer camp and didn’t have a pad and ended up ripping off part of her T-shirt and using it as a makeshift blood-catcher, and the fact that she used to have a crush on Jake Peralta.  
  
It began way back when she started working at the precinct, in 2007. She was twenty-five years old, just made detective, and instead of pairing her with someone experienced, someone who could possibly be a mentor to her, McGinley assigned her a partner who’d only been there a few years, who was barely even older than her, and whose goofy, wide-mouthed grin, as he stuck out his hand to introduce himself, was somehow the most charming thing she’d ever seen.  
  
“Jake Peralta,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”  
  
He could have said it in a million different ways: formal, flirtatious, bored, sarcastic. But he said it sincerely, like he was genuinely pleased to be meeting her, and the spirit he gave the formulaic words delivered on the promise suggested by that smile--this was a happy person, a nice person. A nice _man_ , to be specific, and she was noticing, because as she took his hand she felt a ripple of tension run through her.  
  
Uh-oh, she thought, because that was the same god-damn feeling she’d felt at the beginning of every crush she’d ever had, and as nice as Jake seemed (though for all she knew, he could turn out to be a total asshole who asked her for Mexican food recommendations because “it’s basically the same thing as Cuban” and accused her of PMS-ing every time she disagreed with him), it was completely and utterly inappropriate to be into any of her coworkers--let alone her partner.  
  
So she hoped that he’d turn out to be an asshole after all (though not so much of one that he’d be unbearable to work with), or that the stupid pheromones she was feeling would subside.  
  
Jake was, of course, not an asshole. Oh, he was disgustingly messy in all aspects of his life, he never once thought before speaking, and he actually thought he was a better detective than she was, which was undoubtedly a ridiculous delusion on his part--he was all those things, but he was also the same person she’d guessed he was the moment she met him, the same kind spontaneous sincere man who’d smiled at her, and she, unfortunately, found that person pretty irresistibly adorable.  
  
This gave rise to what Amy would later term Phase One in the progression of dealing with her attraction to Jake Peralta: Trying to Ignore It.  
  
It worked pretty well, for the most part. She took some cues from Detective Diaz, who could never have been accused of having overly sentimental feelings for anyone in the precinct, and behaved as though she were indifferent to Peralta’s antics, pretended he actually was the obnoxious kid he sometimes acted like.  
  
The sexual parts were, at first, not impossible to ignore. She had to touch him every once in a while, of course, when holding onto a perp together or doing shooting drills or making a human pyramid of detectives with Gina at the top, and the first few times it happened, skin-on-skin contact or knees touching through clothing, she felt her heart beat faster and her face become warm from her proximity to his body, but familiarity did indeed breed contempt, or at least comfort. She would still feel that frisson of sexual tension, every once in a while, when he grinned at her or gently put his hand on her shoulder or told her she was brilliant, but for the most part touching Jake became like touching anyone else.

However, although she managed to control her physical reactions, she had far less success with her imagination. Amy wasn't dating anyone, and as the months went by and she failed to meet anyone else crush-worthy, her focus on Jake grew and grew. She started over-analyzing his gestures and movements, looking for hidden meaning in their conversations, and although she continued to hide her feelings in public, they continued to blossom out of control in private.  
  
So when she woke up one morning in 2009 from a dream in which Peralta declared his love for her underneath a canopy of elm trees, then whispered lines from Keats poems into her ears while massaging her body, she decided that the crush had gotten out of control (and entirely broken with any semblance of reality, because there was not the slightest chance that Peralta had ever gotten within twenty feet of a Keats poem), and that it was time to move on to Phase Two: Actively Fighting It.


	2. Halloween 2008

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was part one of a series that was going to document unseen Nine-Nine Halloweens.

“Okay, you guys,” Jake said seriously, looking around at his fellow detectives, “does everyone have the required materials?”  
  
“Absolutely we do,” said Charles in an atrocious English accent.

“Great. Okay, let’s go over roles one more time. I, of course, am Bruce Wayne. Batman. The Dark Knight.” He lowered his voice to a rasping whisper. “You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become a villain.”

“And I, of course,” said Charles, still in his English accent, “am Alfred, your loyal butler and confidante.”

“I’m the Joker,” said Rosa, grinning. “It’s great ‘cause I can kill people and just say I’m in character.”

“But, like, not  _ actually  _ kill people, right?” Charles said, dropping the accent. 

“I don’t know. Depends on if they piss me off enough.”

“I’m Commissioner Gordon,” said Terry proudly, “which doesn’t even require a change of personality. Honest cop.”

“Fantastic,” Jake said, still in his Batman voice. “Aaaaand...Annie Santiago.” He nodded at the precinct’s newest detective, who was still at her desk.

“It’s  _ Amy _ ,” she said acerbically, “and I don’t do Halloween.”

“Whaaaat?” Jake switched back to his normal voice. “Everyone does Halloween. It’s like the best holiday there is.”

“Damn straight!” said Boyle eagerly, and high-fived him.

“It is the  _ worst  _ holiday there is,” replied Santiago, “and while I have no objection to all of you enjoying it, I’d really appreciate it if you’d leave me out of this whole group-costume thing and just let me do my work.”

“I hear you,” Jake said, nodding, “and I’m gonna act like I didn’t. Everyone, Santiago is Rachel Dawes!” He looked down at her. “She wears boring pantsuits. Like you.”

“Oh!” Santiago made a little squeak of protest. “Rachel Dawes  _ died _ in that movie.”

“That’s what happens when you refuse to cooperate,” said Jake smugly, grinning at her. He lowered his voice back to his Batman rasp. “But don’t worry. I will mourn your death, alone in Wayne Manor, for years to come.”

“Wonderful,” said Santiago, rolling her eyes. “Now will you  _ please  _ leave me alone? I have alphabetizing to do.”

Jake snorted. “Alphabetizing?” he asked, no longer Batman. “Man, are you a dork.”

“I am not a  _ dork _ ,” Santiago countered. “I’m a responsible worker who cares about her job. Unlike, apparently, everyone else in this precinct.”

“You think I don’t care about my job?” Terry asked her, eyebrows raised, and Jake could see her take one look at his biceps and recant. 

“I wasn’t talking about you, Sergeant.”

“Good,” said Terry, nodding. “Now, leave Detective Santiago alone, Peralta. She doesn’t have to participate in Halloween if she doesn’t want to.”

Jake had to back off with Terry there, but that didn’t stop him from calling Santiago “Rachel” for the rest of the day. 

She rolled her eyes so many times that Jake was afraid they’d get stuck that way.

 


	3. Getting What You Want By Using Your Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be about Amy going undercover as a woman looking for a hookup, and Jake's veeery mature handling of that situation. (Pre-relationship, obvs.)

“The... _Tinder_ Strangler?” Holt asks, bemused.

“It’s an app,” Gina explains, opening it up on her phone. “A hookup app. You upload photos, write a bio, then it shows you people of your sexual preference in your age range and area. So, here we have...Tim Grabowski. Who, on the plus side, has a photo of himself with a tiger, but, on the minus side, the tiger’s dead. So I will be swiping left, because although I love fur I do not love those who hunt it. But if I was more into senseless violence, I’d swipe right for Tim, and then we’d be a match, and we could chat about meeting up for a date, or, more likely, meaningless sex.”

“They’re calling him the Tinder Strangler,” Terry clarifies, “because the one thing all his victims had in common--besides, being young, attractive women--was that they all had Tinder installed on their phones, and we have testimony from friends of all six victims saying that they used the app. It seems likely that they chatted with this guy, agreed to meet up with him, and he strangled them. And not, you know, as part of some sex thing. He killed them.”

“Yes, I gathered that, thank you,” says Holt. “And you think that the way to catch him is through this...app?”  
  
“Yes. We can create a profile for a woman that has similar interests and physical characteristics to the women who were murdered, and then have her swipe right for every guy the app shows her. If they try to arrange a date at a public location, we can cross them off the list; none of the victims’ friends say they were looking for relationships. Which means we’re looking for someone who just tries to find women interested in casual sex, meets up with them, and…”

“Strangles them. Yes, I understand,” says Holt.

“I considered using stock photos to populate the profile,” Terry continues, “but I don’t think that’s the best option. Our woman’s going to hear from more interested guys than just the strangler; if we greet every one of them with a squad of detectives, we’ll cause a citywide panic. We need a detective to play the role of the woman, so that she can meet the guys and see if they attack her; if they seem normal, she can just say she’s changed her mind about the hookup. Of course, there’ll be backup in the next room, ready to intervene if it is the killer--or if the guy doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“Detective Santiago!” barks Holt. “I think you’re our best option for the lucky bachelorette.”

“Really?” Amy says, excited at the word “best”--but then she realizes what this means, namely, chatting with horny guys on the internet (not exactly her favorite pastime), and meeting up with said horny guys for fake sex (still further from her favorite pastime). “I mean, do I--do I have to?”

“Well, I obviously wouldn’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Holt says, “and if you feel that this is too delicate of an assignment, I can try to find someone else. But I think you’re the most likely to be convincing to the attacker--and to the men just trying to, um, participate in coitus.”

“You think I seem the most like the sort of person who has meaningless sex with strangers from the Internet?” Amy’s not sure whether to be flattered or offended.

“No, just the most genuine and vulnerable,” Holt replies, and she doesn’t know if that’s better or worse (“Genuine” is good, right? But “vulnerable?” Is that a trait captains look for in their detectives?)

“You won’t have to actually message the guys,” Terry assures her. “We’ll get Boyle for that. He’s...very good at suggestive texts.”

“How do _you_ know that?” asks Amy.

Terry shudders. “It was a mistake on his contacts list, Santiago. A mistake.”

“Okay,” she decides, figuring, if she does well enough, it’ll impress Holt. And, after all, all she has to do is meet a guy and then not sleep with him. Amy is _phenomenal_ at not sleeping with guys.


	4. shot in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was set between the S1-S2 hiatus: Jake is accused of murder while undercover and Amy dedicates herself to proving his innocence.

Jake hadn’t expected a hero’s welcome. It would have been nice, there was no denying, to have returned to the Nine-Nine victorious, having taken down the Iannuccis and Podalski and all the rest of them. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t planned out the arrival in his head, strolling in to the applause of the entire precinct: Charles’ adulation, Rosa’s respect, Terry’s pride, Gina’s acknowledgement, Holt’s approval. And Amy was there, too, of course: in his imaginings, she’d conveniently broken up with Teddy while he was gone, perhaps because she realized she had feelings for Jake, perhaps for another, unrelated reason. Either way, she was always there, last of all, beaming at him with her sunshiny smile, congratulating him on the brilliance of his work, telling him how much she’d missed him, hugging him, her body up against his, his hand on her hair…

And then the daydreams tended to go in a more, er,  _ adult  _ direction, wherein Jake and Amy did things that Holt would certainly not have approved of, right there on the precinct floor. Those thoughts were pretty pleasant, too, but not strictly related to his return to duty.

But no matter how nice it would have been to have received such applause upon the completion of his undercover work, Jake hadn’t seriously expected it. A pat on the back or two, maybe; a “Well done, Peralta!” from Santiago, a nod from Holt…that was all he had really been anticipating.

What he had not been prepared for was being hauled into the Nine-Nine in handcuffs, an officer on either side of him, the chief suspect in a murder case.

*

The dead woman was named Alexandra Guarini, and according to the case for the prosecution, she had been Jake’s lover. Supposedly, he had dumped her, she had been angry, discovered he was undercover, and threatened to expose him. They’d met to discuss terms, and he’d shot her in the head.

“You gotta be kidding,” said Jake when he heard this. “That story’s full of holes.”

“So’s Alexandra Guarini’s head,” said Rosa, who was interrogating him.

“Not helpful,” said Jake.

“Well, what’s your side of the story?”

“God, Rosa, don’t say that like you think I’m guilty!”

“I have to be impartial,” Rosa told him. “That’s why Holt gave me the case.”

“Right. Okay. Good to know that you can be open-minded enough to believe me to be a murderer. Really stokes my faith in our friendship.”

“We’re not friends right now, Jake. We’re a cop and a suspect.”

“All right.” He took a deep breath. “My side of the story. I was dating Sandra, but we weren’t lovers. She was part of my cover. Hey, that rhymes--undercover, not my lover--coulda written a rap based on that--okay, off-topic. I had to dump her because it felt like she was getting too close to figuring out I was on the job. I think she thought it was weird that we hadn’t, uh, gotten anywhere. Physically.”

“And why didn’t you just have sex with her?  
”    
“I was undercover. It would have been unethical.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“It was the only reason I needed,” Jake said, truthfully, because it wasn’t like he’d ever have had sex with her, or anyone, while undercover...but he wondered if the fact that Amy Santiago’s face swam before his eyes every time he tried to kiss Sandra Guarini could possibly have made it even less of an option.

“So you dumped her. Then what?”

“Then nothing. She called me a few times, asked did I want to go get drinks or something. I said yes, figured I could pump her for extra information. We met up at this bar, talked for a bit, it didn’t go anywhere. I left around midnight, went home, went to sleep. Heard the next morning she was dead.”

“And that was July 23rd?”

“Evening of the 23rd, yeah.”

“Do you have any witnesses to prove you went home that night? That you didn’t follow Alexandra after leaving the bar, and shoot her?”

“No.”

“Okay. Thank you for your time, Mr. Peralta, and we’ll--”

“But do you have anything to prove I  _ didn’t  _ go home? Or that Sandra was threatening me with exposure? Or that she even knew I wasn’t what I seemed?”

“You know I can’t tell you that. The investigation is ongoing.”

“Right. Thanks for your time, Rosa--Detective Diaz.”

“You’re welcome.”

*

He’d been indicted by the grand jury--murder in the second degree, unpremeditated but intentional. He was sent back to jail to await trial, because apparently the prosecution thought he was too dangerous to be out on bail, and he’d been suspended from the NYPD anyway so it wasn’t like he’d have that much to do.

Sitting alone, in the cell, he thought about the precinct. He wondered how many of them thought he might be guilty. In his deepest heart, he knew that Rosa believed his story, even if she’d never admit it to a suspect. Boyle...well, Boyle would defend him as innocent even if he believed he was guilty, which wasn’t the same thing at all as believing in his innocence. Gina he’d known since forever, surely long enough to have convinced her he’d never do something like sleep with Sandra. Or shoot her. Terry he was less sure of, but the idea of Terry even suspecting him of something like that filled him with such despair that he couldn’t even move through the rest of the ranks, to Holt (like Rosa, not giving anything away) and Amy.

“You have a visitor,” the guard told him, which was surprising, because if it were a cop they wouldn’t have phrased it that way, and he hadn’t asked his lawyer to come today.

But he followed the guard into the visiting room, sat down at the chair behind the glass, picked up the telephone, and waited for his visitor.

It was Amy, and his heart did cartwheels.

She smiled at him weakly and sat down on the other side of the glass, just looking at him for a full minute before she picked up the phone.

“Hey, Jake.”

“Santiago. What are you…?”  
  
“I came to see you. Idiot.”

“Are you on the case? Like Rosa?”

“No. I’m actually...I’m on a leave of absence from the department.”

“Why?”  
  
“So I can investigate the murder of Alexandra Guarini.” She held his gaze steadily. “So I can prove your innocence.”

He wanted to cry, but he forced out a grin instead. “Holt must have had a field day with that.”

“He told me what I was doing was terrible for my career. But I think he approved. I’m getting better at reading him, you know. While you were away...I don’t mean to brag, but we kind of bonded.”

This time he smiled for real. “Glad something good happened while I was gone.”

“We all know you’re innocent,” she said, and the fact that she said “know” and not “think” did wonders for his confidence. 

“Santiago, with you on my side, I think I might have a shot at winning this case. What’s your plan? I know you have one. I know you probably made an outline involving Roman numerals.”

“Actually, no,” she admitted. “It’s too simple for that. I considered finding some way to establish an alibi for you, but the initial interrogations with the people in your apartment building turned up nothing. None of them heard you coming home.”

“I’m a considerate neighbor. Sue me.”

“I think the last thing you need is to add a civil trial to your criminal one,” she said dryly. “No, like I said, my plan’s simpler even than finding you an alibi.”

“What is it?”

“I’m going to find the real murderer.”

He let out a sigh of disappointment. 

“What?” she asked.

“It’s just...I’m pretty sure she did it herself. You know. Suicide.”

“You think she shot herself? Why? Because of you?”

“No! Well, maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t know her that well. She could have had a dozen reasons to kill herself.”

“But if it was suicide, where’s the weapon? They didn’t find a gun at the scene.”

“I didn’t think of that,” he said, and then, “Damn! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Basic! Clearly I’m slipping."


End file.
